


Shout

by nouseforaname



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 04:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11395416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nouseforaname/pseuds/nouseforaname
Summary: Even though you hate him, even though you’re fully aware of the things he’s done, it’s true: You love him. You’re still his daughter, he’s still your father, and God - you missed him so much.





	Shout

**Author's Note:**

> For a bit of context, read Riverdale #0 (The one-shot prologue) - specifically Veronica's chapter.

You remember running down the hallways of the Dakota as a child with your dress flapping around your ankles and your hair whipping your cheeks. You remember the way the sun would peek in through the windows and slash across the polished marble floors. It’s warm and bright and he’s finally home from work.

You spring off the ground with all of the power your little legs can muster, leaping straight into the air and right into his awaiting arms. You close your eyes and breathe him in: Cigar smoke and cologne.

“Oh, Daddy,” You say, your voice muffled against his collar, “I love you.”

“Oh, mija,” His voice is gravely, a low rumble at the base of his throat - like a motor running on standby. It’s familiar and comforting. “I love you more.”

 

* * *

 

You’re the apple of his eye, his _princesita._ You wish for something, and he’ll make it come true: VIP tickets to any concert of your choice. A shopping spree in Milan, Paris, London, anywhere. Dinner at a restaurant so exclusive it has a separate, secret phone number for preferred customers. He’s the reason why your life is better than perfect.

But at the end of the day he is still human and he makes mistakes - like when he stands you up for dinner at your favourite Italian restaurant because he’s busy with work and he didn’t call to say he’s not going to make it, or when you’re supposed to be relaxing on the family yacht in the Caribbean during summer break and he’s yapping away on his phone.

Or those late nights when he argues with your mother because he thinks you’re fast asleep and it’s okay to be mad. Their angry voices pierce your bedroom walls and slither into your sheets, wrapping you up in a cold discomfort; you can tell something is wrong, but you don’t really know what it is. What you know for sure is that you hate the sound of him yelling; it’s loud and boorish and it doesn’t suit him at all. It makes him sound like a monster.

But the worry that nags at you never stays for long, because he’s always making up for it the next day: A brand new Givenchy bag, a surprise trip to Santorini, a private meet-and-greet with your favourite band. He lavishes you with gifts and you suddenly forget why you were angry with him in the first place.

Because you’re his pride and joy, _niña de papá_ (Or _garotinha do papai;_ Spanish is the common tongue in your household but he insisted you learn his native language too) _._ He would do anything for you.

At least that’s what you were led to believe for the first sixteen years of your life.

 

* * *

 

He gets arrested on your annual Fourth of July party because fate has horrible timing and wants to make sure the world sees your father for who he truly is.

Oh, but there must be some mistake. He would never embezzle money. He isn’t a fraud. This is unheard of, this is unlike him. This isn’t in his character.

Is this karma’s way of giving you what you deserve? Years of clawing your way to the top of Spence’s social pyramid were going to come with consequences eventually; this must be it. Karma decides to hurt you where it hurts most, by taking away the person who means the world to you.

That’s why they’re dragging him away from you right now, right?

“Get my daughter out of here!” You hear him shout as the FBI pulls him further and further away, out of your orbit and into a place where you can’t reach. His voice is gruff and it’s like nails to a chalkboard. You hate it when he sounds like this, even when he’s directing his anger towards someone else. “I don’t want her to see this!”

But you’ve seen enough.

 

* * *

 

You’ve been so tightly wound around him that when he’s ripped away from you, you unravel so quickly it makes your head spin. You conveniently get “laid off” at your summer job with Vogue. All of the restaurants you frequently dine at are mysteriously booked through the next month. Your Spence classmates confess that their parents don’t want them to be seen around you.

Your yacht is gone. Your penthouse in Miami and chalet in Zermatt are gone too. The authorities seize most of the furniture in the Dakota, and you’re left with whatever you can shove into your luggage - oh, by the way, you’re moving to some tiny hick town in the boonies called Riverdale because your parents have a secret pied-á-tierre there. It’s the only thing under your mother’s name, therefore the police can’t touch it.

All of this happens within two weeks.

He calls you from a dirty payphone as you neatly fold a cashmere sweater into one of your suitcases. You tell him you know he’s innocent, that his competitors are just jealous and are spinning lies so they can get ahead of him. You also tell him about the tabloids, the headlines, the hundreds of angry tweets flooding your phone’s notifications.

 _“Hija, cálmate.”_ His voice is low, but stern, and it throws you back a bit. He never used this tone with you before, not even when you were at your rowdiest. Not even when he caught you sneaking back into the Dakota at four in the morning because you were out all night dancing with the cast of your favourite reality TV show at the hottest club in the East Village. It sends a chill down your spine and it ripples to the tips of your fingers and toes.

“It’s going to be okay.” He says after a beat of silence, and his voice is softer. He doesn’t say sorry, but you can hear the guilt in his words. You’re sure he won’t ever speak with you like that again.

You want to say you believe him, but you can’t, for some reason.

 

* * *

 

You were such a crier when you were a baby, your mother always used to tell you. For the first two weeks of your life she wasn’t sure what colour your eyes were because all she saw were your tonsils.

But then she’d pass you over to your father and it’s a different story. The tears stop, your eyes open, and - “Oh, Hiram, _no es ella encantadora?”_

You were his girl from the very beginning.

Would your tears stop if he held you now? You think about this as you duck into the backseat of the one car they did not take from you.

 

* * *

 

The Pembrooke is nothing like the Dakota - there’s a weird draft in the living room and you don’t even have a personal chef - but this is home now, and you have to get used to it. Besides, this is good for you - it’s the perfect opportunity to start over, to reinvent yourself, to be the best possible version of yourself that you can be. You’re done being the archetypical rich bitch. You want to prove the world wrong and show them that your father’s mistakes aren’t yours too.

Still, your heart aches for him, and all you really want is to hear his voice. You want him to tell you that everything’s getting sorted out, that he’ll be returning to you soon, that he’ll be out of jail in no time and you’ll be able to return to New York, that _todo va a salir bien, mi amor._

Your mother insists on hitting up an old diner that she loved frequenting when she was your age, and if you weren’t so hungry from the long drive you would’ve searched for an excuse to turn her down.

“Pop’s is a place unlike any other,” She says as she pulls the car into the tiny parking lot, “Extraordinary things happen when you step inside.”

“Like heart attacks and diabetes?” You sarcastically reply, your eyes stubbornly glaring at the neon sign from your heavily tinted window. The garish red light it casts over the shoebox-sized building is giving you serious Grease - both the movie and literal grease - vibes.

Your mother rolls her eyes, which are so much like your own. The only things you got from your father are his jet black hair, strong eyebrows, and fondness for old books. “Go in and you’ll see what I’m talking about. I ordered our food in advance so all you have to do is pick it up.”

Old Veronica would have said something snarky in response, but that’s not who you are anymore. Instead, you put on your best smile before crouching out of the car. You’re just popping in and out; what’s the worst that can happen?

 

* * *

 

If the Lodges’ tongues are made from silver, their skin must be crafted from diamond.

You were thrust into the spotlight the second you were brought into this world and it burns just a little brighter with every passing year. The world watched you take your first steps, heard you utter your first word (It was _papi,_ by the way), and followed you on your first day of school. You’re used to the continuous stream of comments, both positive and negative. You’ve been ridiculed for being a spoiled heiress, the new Paris Hilton. To the public you’re nothing but a wild young thing with little regard for the consequences. There isn’t a single tabloid out there that hasn’t mentioned your lavish shopping sprees and crazy parties. You’ve been insulted by thousands of people and your (Verified, blue checkmarks included) social media pages are swamped with tons of comments on a daily basis. It’s not that big a deal.

But the scandal involving your father changes things. This time their threats and jeers have merit. Your father is a thief. Your father is crooked. Your father built an entire kingdom on corruption and you’re the princess. The throne you’ve been lounging on for the past sixteen years is made of plywood and your crown is fashioned out of pyrite. Everything you’ve ever known is a lie, and it’s all his fault - and you can’t help but resent him for that. He made a big mess of things and he left you and your mother in the middle of it all, expecting the both of you to clean up after him.

 _It’s karma for being such a brat,_ One person angrily tweets.

 _About time the Lodges got what they deserved,_ Another comments on a news article from Facebook.

 _Oh, how the mighty have fallen!_ Someone sarcastically chimes in when TMZ posts a candid photo of the repo men carrying your father’s prized dalbergia executive desk out of the Dakota on Instagram.

Sometimes they can be _so loud,_ and it’s difficult to drown them out.

Oh, but what did he used to tell you? “Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.” He lives and breathes Sun Tzu. “Never let your enemies know when you’ve fallen back, because they’ll know it’s the perfect time to strike.” That second part is all him.

He’s right. He almost always is.

So you hold your head high and you strut down the hallway of your new school like you’re on the runway at New York Fashion Week. You feel their eyes piercing you but you pay them no mind. It’s just another day in the life of Veronica Lodge. You’re used to this. You’re used to the attention.

“Didn’t her dad get arrested for fraud?”

“She’s _so_ much hotter in person.”

“I heard her parents grew up here.”

Some of them aren’t even trying to whisper, but that’s fine.

When you make your way into the main office and find Betty Cooper - the pretty blonde girl you met last night at Pop’s - waiting for you with a warm smile, you smile back because you know you got this. This is nothing.

 

* * *

 

He was the first person you came out to.

You’re thirteen and crying in your bedroom because this is the first time you’ve ever had a crush on another girl, and you don’t know what to do. It’s unknown territory and it frightens you. Is there something wrong with you? Are you supposed to feel this way? Is it natural?

He hears you blubbering from his office down the hall and he’s by your side in seconds. “Mija, what’s the matter?” The gentle quake of his voice soothes your cries. When you explain your dilemma his expression is bemused at first, but it quickly warms into something more understanding. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“I don’t?” You hiccup, your cheek pressed against him.

“Of course not.” The arm draped over your shoulder squeezes you affectionately. “ _O amor não tem gênero.”_ You like it when he uses Portuguese; it’s a language your mother isn’t fluent in, so it feels like a secret code between the both of you. Aside from speaking it to playfully spite your mother (Like when you were small and he’d wake you up early on Saturday mornings so the both of you can sneak in some ice cream before breakfast), he only uses it when he’s absolutely serious, so you know he really means it.

“So there’s nothing wrong with me?” You sniffle as he wipes the tears from your face. “Even if I like both boys and girls?”

“You’re perfect just the way you are.” He hums for a moment, thinking of what to say next. “The way I see it, this means you’re not picky - and that’s a good trait to have.”

You don’t know why you’re recalling this memory nearly three years later in a high school change room, but it’s all you can think about when you watch Betty twirl in her River Vixens uniform for the very first time.

 

* * *

 

As the weeks roll by you begin to see why your parents moved out of Riverdale in the first place: This town brings out the absolute worst in people.

When you first saw your mother clearing tables at Pop’s in that ridiculous yellow uniform, you pitied her. She’d come home with aching feet and grease stains on her skirt and your heart would go out to her because you know she wouldn’t be doing this if she had a choice.

But when you see Alice Cooper and Penelope Blossom turn their noses up at her, claiming this is what she gets for being such a “slut” and a “mean girl” back in high school, your insides turn cold.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, apparently.

No, that can’t be true. Your mother is a saint; she would never do such a thing. Your father being a criminal is bad enough; having _two_ terrible parents is too much for you to bear.

But time passes and she begins to live up to Alice and Penelope’s backhanded comments. You catch her exchanging money with a Southside Serpent in a dark alleyway behind the Twilight drive-in, and when you confront her about it later she tells you about your father’s arrangement with the gang and how it’s all for business - and your world collapses just a little bit more, because you realize that your mother is in on the corruption too.

When Fred Andrews offers your mother a new job, you think this is a sign that things are finally turning around - but when you decide to surprise her at work one day after school and find out that her relationship with Mr. Andrews is way more than just professional, Riverdale laughs in your face again.

Your father’s a fake, your mother is having an affair, everyone hates your family, a boy has been murdered, and the girl you’re crushing on has a boyfriend. It’s like you weren’t meant to have anything nice.

You finally put your foot down when you learn that she forged your signature in order to award her paramour the construction contract for whatever your father is planning to replace the drive-in with. You refused to be involved in any of this, but your mother drags you into it anyway, and she’s going to pay for that (Literally). Nobody uses you like this and gets away with it, not even your own flesh and blood.

Maybe you’re more like him than you thought.

 

* * *

 

 _A mão que afaga é a mesma que apedreja._ It’s an old proverb your grandfather always used to say to him when he was a boy. _The hand that caresses is the same that stones._

You mull this over as you and your mother nervously wait for your father’s call.

But when you finally hear his voice for the first time in what feels like centuries, your resentment washes away and you’re suddenly bawling over the speakerphone, telling him how much you miss him and how terrible Riverdale has been to you so far. At the end of the day you’re still his girl, and he knows this.

“I miss you too, mija.” He says in a tone solely reserved for you, and you choke back a sob. You want to hate him, but you miss him so much.

Now it’s your mother’s turn to speak, and when she admits to the forgery the conversation blows up and you’re awkwardly sitting in silence as your parents go back and forth at each other in heated Spanish. Your eyes shut when his voice hardens, and he gets so aggressive that you stand up and leave before the argument is over. You can’t be around when he’s like this.

You rush into your room, flop onto your bed, and pull your pillow over your head. You’re eight years old again, trying to block out the boom of your father’s anger.

Your hand finds your phone and you call Betty - the only person in this town you can trust - but she doesn’t pick up. She’s probably with Jughead. You cry some more.

 

* * *

 

You’re trilingual, but there aren’t any words in your extended vocabulary that accurately describe how you feel when you find out Ethel’s father nearly killed himself because of what _your_ father did to him.

Your reflection stares back at you from a grimy mirror in the girls’ change room. The pearls around your neck glint under the light like a set of teeth and they’re simpering at you, ogling you like a delicious meal they’re just about to devour.

These were a gift from him, a material apology for making your mother cry on their wedding anniversary. He promised he’d meet the both of you for dinner at Le Cirque and he never showed up. You refused to talk to him for almost a week - and then, one morning, there’s a velvet box sitting on your bedside table with _Lo siento, mija_ written in elegant black letters on a notecard. You took one look at those pearls and suddenly all was forgiven.

He never really apologizes, at least not to your face. A gift and a simple written _I’m sorry_ usually does the trick - but not this time. How can he expect you to support him when he’s ruined so many lives? How were you able to live all these years without knowing the damage he’s done to other people? How many times has he lied to you?

You can’t do this anymore.

His voice, loud and clear, rings in your head as you reach up to rip the necklace from your throat. You’ve never heard him say it to you before, but you imagine this is how he would sound if he did.

_I’m sorry. Lo siento. Desculpe._

The pearls clatter to the floor and roll away from your stilettos. Your sobs die in your throat as your knees give out and you sink - but Betty catches you before you humiliate yourself any further.

You want to be angry with her because you’ve been suffering so much and she hasn’t been around lately, but that’s selfish and you’re trying not to be like that anymore. She doesn’t say anything; she just rubs your back and holds you close as your tears soak her shirt, and it’s enough for now.

When you finally stop crying and you pull away from her arms to look at her, you realize you’ve never had a favourite colour before. Her eyes remind you of the waves that lapped around your ankles that one summer you spent in the Bahamas - crystal clear turquoise that you can stare straight into and you’d be able to see every bit of the ocean floor. Her soft stare quickly silences your father’s voice in your head, and you feel a little better.

Turquoise is your favourite colour now, you think.

 

* * *

 

You’re going to take Smithers’ word and believe your mother is still a good person despite the things she’s done lately. It’s the only reason why you decided to go ahead and testify on your father’s behalf - because your mother deserves better than this. Than him.

He threatened to take your mother down if you didn’t do what he wanted you to do. What other choice did you have?

But you can’t help but admit that a small glimmer of hope reignited somewhere inside of you when you heard from Archie that the Blossoms might have contributed to his arrest. Can you blame yourself? Even after everything he’s done, he’s still your father and there’s always going to be space in your heart for him.

That’s why, despite the things he’s said and done, you’re wearing the new set of pearls he sent you.

That’s why, despite the harrowing possibility he may be responsible for Jason’s death, you’re going behind Betty’s back and searching F.P.’s trailer with Archie.

Because, even though you finally understand the person he truly is, a part of you wants to believe that there’s a semblance of goodness in him somewhere.

Whatever slim chance you had with Betty is all but gone now. Was any of this worth it?

 

* * *

 

You’re with Archie now, or at least you think you are. He’s cute, fun, and a temporary distraction from the dumpster fire that is your life, but you don’t want to get too attached. You’re not in the right headspace for a serious commitment right now.

The only problem with that is Archie isn’t like you. He can’t partition his feelings from his logic as well as you can. When Archie feels, he feels too intensely, and it can get overwhelming. Since Betty and Jughead are apparently soulmates, he somehow deduces that you and he are soulmates too. You want to tell him that you’re only sixteen and people rarely find their soulmate at this stage of their lives, but you were the one who called Betty and Jughead soulmates in the first place so you’d be contradicting yourself. Why did you even say that? Do you even believe in soulmates?

You know you at least used to. A lot of kids look at their parents and think, “So this is what soulmates look like”. You were definitely one of them. You always thought that the only person they loved more than each other was you, and when people get married they stay married forever because they found their other half - the one person they were always meant to be with. How naive of you.

 _“Eres el amor de mi vida,_ ” Your father would purr, and your mother comes undone at his words. You used to look at him and believe that this is how every man should treat his wife. Who cares if he’s constantly lying to you? Who cares if he raises his voice at you when you catch him doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing? As long as he says he loves you every once in awhile, that’s all that matters. Right?

You were so stupid back then, but you know better now.

“Who else could it be, Veronica?” Archie’s shaking his head in disbelief. You’ve been fighting over this for the past couple of weeks and it’s getting tiresome. “It wasn’t a robbery - the gunman didn’t take any money when he left.”

“So?” You cross your arms. “It doesn’t give you an excuse to throw such a bold accusation. I get that my dad isn’t perfect-”

“So he’s suddenly innocent now that you know he wasn’t involved in Jason’s murder? He’s suddenly immune to any future criminal activity?” His voice is getting louder and harder, and it’s making your heart pound.

“That has nothing to do with what we’re talking about right now and you know it.” You spit back, though your voice is trembling. “I get that you’re hurt right now, Archie, and you’re desperate for someone to blame-”

“And I’m blaming him!” Archie’s full on yelling now, and you’re terrified even though you know you shouldn’t be. “Out of all the possible suspects, he’s the most likely to have done it. I’m sorry, Ronnie, but-”

He’s too loud. He’s too angry. You don’t like this. You’re storming out of his house before you’re able to hear whatever else he has to say, and by the time you’re marching down the front steps your tears are dripping off the edges of your jawline and onto your Kate Spade top. He’s growing louder and louder in your head and suddenly you can hear your father yelling too. Their voices overlap and you can no longer differentiate between the two. All you know is that they’re both mad at you, and you don’t like it. You push your palms against your ears in a feeble attempt to drown them out, but it’s only making them angrier.

It’s so loud, they’re so loud. Your head is beginning to throb and your pulse is thrumming uncontrollably. You can feel the cold drip of sweat on your temples and you just want it to stop. You want everything to stop. You just want them to stop yelling at you. You’re so tired of this.

“V?” A soft voice cuts through the air, and the echoes of Archie and your father quickly die out. You glance upward and notice Betty on the opposite side of the street, gaping at you with confused turquoise eyes. It looks like she’s just leaving her house to go somewhere - Jughead’s, probably. Your heart sinks.

You force your mouth open to give her some half-assed excuse, but before you’re able to summon your voice she’s by your side and pulling you into her arms. You melt into her instantly, pressing your cheek against her shoulder and crying into the crook of her neck. She’s squeezing your waist, rubbing your back, running her fingers through your hair - and you can’t hear Archie anymore. You can’t hear your father either. Betty’s shielding you from the quake of their voices, and you feel safe. You haven’t felt this secure in months.

You hear Archie’s front door swing open, and the both of you glance up to see him standing on his porch. There’s frustration in his stare but the rest of his face looks puzzled. “Veronica-”

“Come on.” Betty curls an arm around your shoulders and gently turns your body away from him. She’s guiding you back to her place, somewhere safe and far away from the angry men in your life.

“But don’t you have someplace to be?” You sound so small, so childish. It’s not like you at all - then again, you haven’t really been yourself lately.

“I do,” Betty casually replies as she searches her pockets for her house key. “And it’s right here, with you.”

 

* * *

 

You’re in a garden standing amongst your closest friends and family. The white lace of your dress is almost blinding under the bright summer sun and the bouquet you’re holding is plush with all sorts of different flowers. There’s a string quartet somewhere and the birds are chirping an accompaniment to the music. It’s picture perfect.

You’re shuffling down the aisle with your arm looped around your father’s. He’s smiling at you, the age lines on his face gently creased with pride and affection. Your chest swells with love for him, because even though this is your big day you’re always going to be his girl, his _pequeñita. Garotinha._

Archie’s waiting for you with his hands clasped over his kilt. When your father gives you away and you step over to meet Archie’s gaze you mutter a joke about how he looks better in a skirt than you, and he chuckles under his breath. Not too far away, Betty’s decked out in an elegant blue gown and grinning at you from ear to ear. Jughead’s standing next to Reggie and he’s sneaking you a thumbs up.

Before the ceremony ends and you seal your bond with the redhead for better and for worse, you take one more look at the crowd - and that’s when things go downhill. Grundy - well, Jennifer Gibson - is sitting in the front row, beside your mother. Why the hell is she here? Her eyes are all over Archie, staring at him in a way a teacher isn’t supposed to, and when you look back at Archie he’s staring back at her with a similar expression. Betty and Jughead have somehow moved next to each other and are holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes like this is their wedding instead of yours.

And suddenly your father is gone too. Where did he go? Your head is swivelling left and right as you search the faces of your guests - Mayor McCoy, Dilton Doiley, Principal Weatherbee, Ethel Muggs, your old Spence classmates, Jason Blossom - but he’s nowhere to be found. Your eyes shift to your posse of bridesmaids and groomsmen and your anxiety reaches its peak when you notice Betty and Jughead have also disappeared. What’s going on? What’s happening?

Then a single gunshot rips through the thick summer air, and there’s a man in a balaclava and a leather jacket striding down the aisle with a pistol pointed in your direction. Fred Andrews is sprawled out on the grass, his shirt wet and dark with blood. The crowd is undisturbed by the commotion; they’re still sitting in their chairs, smiling at you like background characters in a painting. They’re frozen in their happiness, their ignorance.

When the man is an arm’s length away from you, he pulls off his mask and suddenly your father’s back, staring straight at you with a face void of any emotion. The barrel of his gun is pointing at the space between your eyes. Archie’s still looking at Grundy. Betty’s still gone. Your mother is still smiling at you from her seat, blissfully unaware.

“Daddy?” You choke out as your eyes begin to sting with tears.

You never know how this nightmare ends because you always wake up just as he squeezes the trigger.

 

* * *

 

The Pembrooke is basically a greenhouse at this point. It’s bursting with flowers. The overwhelming fragrance makes you sick.

“Any minute now.” Your mother hums as she tips a watering can over a stalk of orchids.

You’re sitting on the couch. If you’re not wringing your hands you’re fidgeting with the pearls around your neck. You don’t want him here. You hate that he’s coming back. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t deserve to waltz back into your life like this. You can feel your heart pummelling your ribcage. It’s beating in your ears like a drum.

Then there’s the _click_ of the front door unlocking. You raise your head, and the tears come to you almost automatically when you see him standing there. His black hair is peppered with more grey than you remember, and he looks thinner under his Armani suit.

Your mother crumples against him, and you watch as your parents fall back into a routine you’ve seen them perform countless times before. This always happens when he does something unforgivable. His lips are murmuring words about how much he missed her, how glad he is to finally be back with her - and like always, your mother eats them up, sighing into his shoulder and closing her eyes. She slips back into a dream, the storybook fantasy of the life you lived before he was arrested.

But even though you’re awake now and you know what he is, you’re crying anyway because after so many months of being apart your family is back together - and when he glances over to you and says in that voice you missed so much, _“Mija,”_ you’re in his embrace in seconds and sobbing into his chest.

“Oh, Daddy,” You cry, "I love you.” Because even though you hate him, even though you’re fully aware of the things he’s done, it’s true: You love him. You’re still his daughter, he’s still your father, and God - you missed him so much.

“Oh, mija,” His voice is that familiar, gentle, low rumble you remember from your childhood, and your heart goes out to him despite the fact that you know he’s actually a monster. “I love you more.”

 

* * *

 

But it’s not okay. You come to this realization mere hours after he returns.

They’re fighting again; you can hear them from somewhere down the hall. Their jagged words threaten to stab into your sides as you writhe underneath the sheets of your bed. You hear words like _gunshot_ and _Pop’s_ and _targeted_ and _Fred_ and you clench your teeth as you flatten your palms against the sides of your head. You don’t want to hear any of this. Your tears, hot and wet, stream down your cheeks and soak your pillow.

But your eyes catch the screen of your phone lighting up, and when you see Betty’s name blinking back at you your hand grasps for it like it’s a glass of cold water in the midst of a dry desert. You hold it to your ear and you want to cry some more when you hear her voice on the other end.

“I know your dad came back today,” She says, “So I just wanted to see how you’re holding up.” She sounds so soft, so concerned. She’s never harsh with you, even when you’ve done things that hurt her. She never yelled at you like your father or Archie has. She knows it bothers you (Even though you never told her why), so when she’s upset with you she always remembers to use an even tone. Even when she’s mad at you, she still cares.

She stays on the phone with you all night. You fall asleep to her voice, and for the first time in weeks you don’t have that awful nightmare.

 

* * *

 

“Daddy?”

“Yes, mija?” He doesn’t even pause to glance up from the papers he’s examining.

“Can I ask you a question?” You slip into the seat across from him. There are files, invoices, and contracts strewn all over the dining table. You see _Blossom Maple Farms_ and _Andrews Construction_ printed on some of them but for your sanity’s sake you avoid reading any further.

“Of course, _mi amor._ What is it?”

You hesitate for a second, but you’ve gotten this far and there’s no turning back so there’s not much else you can do but press forward. “Do you know anything about what happened to Mr. Andrews?”

He doesn’t speak for a little while. The silence dangles over your head like a guillotine. You study his face, but it’s unreadable. He’s a businessman; he’s an expert at hiding the truth. “Did his son say anything about it?” His tone bitterly hardens on _son,_ and it makes you feel uneasy. “Your mother told me you’ve grown close to him.”

You haven’t talked to Archie since that day he yelled at you, and you don’t plan on speaking to him anytime soon. “No, he hasn’t, at least not recently.” You begin to chew on your bottom lip. “But he seems to think you’re involved somehow.”

“I advise you to stay away from him, Veronica.” He finally peers through his glasses to look at you. He’s still expressionless, impossible to read, but his voice has grown cold. “He and his family are not to be trusted.”

“You said the same thing about the Blossoms and the Coopers.” You point out, feeling a little daring at first - but when his black eyes flicker with anger they freeze you in your seat.

“Because it’s the truth.” He replies simply, but he still sounds too rigid and formal, like he’s speaking to a client rather than his daughter. “There’s a reason why we moved away from this place, mija. If I had the luxury of taking you and your mother back to our home in New York, I would do it in a heartbeat - but we need to make do with what we have.” He shuffles a stack of papers. “Riverdale isn’t what you think it is.”

But Riverdale _is_ home now, you want to tell him. Riverdale has been more of a home to you in the past few months than New York ever has in years, but you refrain yourself from saying so because you don’t know how he’ll react. There will be a time when you’ll be brave enough to speak up, to fight back, but it’s not now. He’s been home for barely a week and the truth about who he really is still rubs you raw. You haven’t given your wounds enough time to harden into scars yet. You’re still bleeding.

So you dutifully nod and utter a weak, “I see. Goodnight, then,” before getting up to retreat to your room.

“Goodnight, mija.” You hear him distractedly murmur back, but all you can think about is how he avoided answering your question.

 

* * *

 

She broke up with Jughead, Betty tells you over lunch one day. The Southside has claimed him and it’s unlikely he’s returning anytime soon. The Serpents are his family now, and they’re giving him the security and acceptance that she can’t.

In return, you tell him about your mixed feelings over your father. You tell her how you don’t know if he was behind Fred’s shooting, and you tell her how you don’t understand why you still love him even though he’s done so many awful things. She tells you that she feels the same way about her mom, and that makes you feel better because at least you know now that you’re not alone.

For the first time in forever, things genuinely start to look up. Despite the large shadow your father’s return has casted over your life, Betty shines impossibly bright, and you bask under the warmth of her glow. You’re able to spend more time together now that Archie and Jughead are no longer in the picture, and while you miss the four of you hanging out you can’t help but relish in the fact that you have all of Betty’s attention. She’s your best friend again, and even though you’re sure this is the farthest your relationship will ever go you cherish it anyway.

But the blonde proves you wrong one stormy Friday night when you’re holed up in her room. It’s raining too hard to go home and she insists you stay over, even though you’re certain your father won’t like it. She distracts you from your worries with Netflix, junk food, and nail polish in a variety of pastels. You feel like a regular teenage girl, and it’s nice.

You fall asleep in the middle of a movie and you’re instantly whisked away to that garden. You’re in that dress again and Fred’s bleeding out on the ground and your father is holding that gun to your head and Archie’s staring at Grundy and Betty’s mysteriously gone and-

You bolt straight up, chest heaving and hair plastered to your face. Your cheeks are damp with tears; you’ve been crying in your sleep again. You glance around and the panic forces you to temporarily forget where you are; these walls are unfamiliar and the bed you’re sitting in isn’t yours. The shirt you’re wearing is at least two sizes too big for you and the collar is slouching off your shoulder, revealing bare skin coated with sweat.

Your father’s voice is shouting in your head. He’s telling you how wrong you are. He’s telling you that you shouldn’t be here. He’s telling you that you shouldn’t betray him, that you shouldn’t go behind his back and do things he doesn’t want you to do. He’s loud and booming and every word he says pushes into your brain like railroad spikes. Your hands instinctively reach upward to push against your ears. You just want him to stop yelling.

“V.” Betty’s awake and her palm is lovingly pressed against your cheek. She tenderly turns your head so that you’re facing each other, and you sniffle like a child as she brushes your tears away. She kisses your forehead and cradles you as you fall apart. “It’s okay,” She whispers into your ear, “I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

The gentle, soft love emanating from her words makes you want to kiss her - and that’s exactly what you do, even though you’re unsure of how she feels about you. You’re pleasantly surprised when she kisses back, and your heart wants to burst with a happiness you’ve never felt before. It’s better than a new Valentino dress, better than finally nailing that routine you’ve been working your butt off to perfect during Vixens practice, better than a thousand pearl necklaces, better than anything Archie or your father or anyone has ever given you.

Nobody loves you the way Betty Cooper does.

 

* * *

 

She gives you the strength you need to stand up to him. Little by little, you grow a little braver, and you gradually begin to find your voice every time he tries to silence you. You continue to dig into his dirty past, and even though it pains you to uncover so many terrible secrets you know this is what you have to do. You’re tired of your parents lying to you all the time. You’re tired of being the oblivious, spoiled princess they raised you to be.

And Betty’s there by your side throughout the whole process, aiding you in your investigation. She even suggests writing exposés in the Blue and Gold and even her parents’ newspaper so more people are aware of the things he’s done - and even though you’re afraid of his reactions, you agree to it anyway because it’s the right thing to do. Your father is a plague to so many people and you want to find the cure.

But you know that he isn’t going to go down without a fight. Hiram Lodge’s ruthlessness has a reputation for a reason, and now that you’re no longer on his side he isn’t afraid to unleash it on you.

 _“Hija,”_ He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration before waving the newspaper in his hand, “How many times do I have to tell you to _stop_ fraternizing with Betty Cooper? Her parents own The Register; do you know what kinds of things they’re saying about me - about us?”

“Every single word,” You quip; your shoulders are squared but you’ve never been so terrified in your life. “Because I’ve been helping them.”

His eyes nearly bulge out of his skull at this revelation. His hands curl into fists, crushing the paper between his fingers, and the fear festering inside of you begins to mutate into something bigger. “If you keep this up there’s no way I will be able to restore Lodge Industries to its former glory.”

 _“Glory?”_ You scoff, and you cross your arms so he won’t see your shaking hands. You know it’s important to hide your weaknesses from your enemies; he taught you that himself. “Is that what you want to call it? Lodge Industries is crooked and corrupt, and I can’t believe you hid that from me all these years.”

“Veronica,” He growls, and your heart is beating so hard you fear it’s going to jump right out of your chest. “If you’re ever hoping to take over the family business someday-”

“Family business!” You spit out the words like they're poison, and the stoniness in your voice frighteningly reminds you of him. He groomed you to be his successor; this is what he gets for crossing you, and _no one_ crosses a Lodge. “You expect _me_ to be as lawless and unprincipled as you?” Your voice grows louder and louder, and you feel invincible. “Mom was trying to turn Lodge Industries legitimate, and even though she made a few mistakes here and there she was off to a good start before you stepped in and ruined everything.” You dare yourself to take a step closer, your heel clicking against the hard floor. “The only reason why you’re back with us is because _I_ testified on your behalf, and I only did it for her. She isn’t totally innocent and I get that now, but she’s still _miles_ ahead of you and I’m not going to let you use her against me again.” You shake your head. “I know about the perpetuity fee with the Blossoms. I looked into the investments the Muggs family made with you. I found out about those thugs you sent from Montreal to trash Mr. Andrews’ worksite. I know _everything,_ Dad. I’m not a kid anymore; you can’t hide these things from me. Sooner or later, I’m going to find out every terrible thing you’ve ever done, and I’m going to make you regret it.”

Your father’s jaw drops. For once he’s at a total loss of words, and you puff out your chest in triumph, though your eyes are stinging with unshed tears. You can see a vein pulsing in his forehead, and his face is nearly purple with pent-up anger. You’ve only seen him this pissed off once before, and that’s when you were boarding your flight to the Maldives and the airline mistakenly placed him in coach.

A part of you is still cowering in fear, afraid of your father’s impending explosion, and the water leaking from your eyes is proof of that - but you’re still holding your ground, Louboutin heels firmly rooted to the floor. He can’t scare you away anymore. You won’t let him.

He wants to yell at you. He wants to scream and spew all different kinds of obscenities and you can see it in his face - but instead of running away and hiding in your bed you take in a shaky breath and stare straight into his eyes. You’re not backing down.

 _“Eu te amo, papai,”_ You say through your tears; you’re using Portuguese because you’re absolutely serious and you really mean it, “I always have and I always will - but I’m going to do whatever it takes to stop you from destroying other peoples’ lives, including my own.”

And you do a one-eighty, walk straight out of the Pembrooke, and make a beeline for Betty’s house because that’s where you belong.

 

* * *

 

You wake up in yet another cold sweat. The nightmares have returned since you walked out on your father, and they’re even more vivid and realistic than before. The sound of the gun firing tears through your eardrums and you bite your lip to force yourself to stop crying. You can taste the blood on your tongue, and for a brief moment you allow yourself to miss him and the way he used to sound when you believed he was a good man. His deceivingly kind voice echoes in between your ears and it only makes the tears drop faster. It haunts you, and it hurts you more than the way his angry voice did. He grows louder and louder even though he isn’t yelling; you groan and clamp your eyes shut, as if that will make him stop.

Then something around your middle tightens; Betty’s arm is sleepily tugging you back to bed. You take one look at her slumbering form, how the golden tendrils of her hair are splayed around her pillow like a halo, and it’s more than enough to make you want to sink back down into the mattress and into her arms. She pulls you close, and when you fit into the contours of her body and breathe her in your father’s voice decrescendos into nothing.

The loving silence of her embrace lulls you back into a peaceful sleep, and you dream of cardigans and vanilla milkshakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on the Fourth of July, because fate said so.
> 
> Any constructive criticism on the non-English parts would be greatly appreciated. Google and YouTube can only teach you so much.


End file.
